Svorsk
by coeurgryffondor
Summary: Sweden may have had control of Norway, but Lukas knew how to control Berwald. And what they shared was consuming, dangerous, something that Lukas had always wanted. / SuNor, historically accurate. Author's note inside with more.


Long and short of it: Historically accurate SuNor with SuFin and DenNor, because this fic has Nordic ships like we're going out on a Viking raiding party!

Names used: **Sweden** (_Berwald Oxenstierna_), **Norway** (_Lukas Bondevik_), **Denmark** (_Christen Densen_), **Iceland** (_Emil Steilsson_), and **Finland** (_Timo Väinämöinen_)

Author's note: This is longer than intended but as I wrote, Su and Nor surprised me with where they went. I therefore hope that you the reader don't mind the way the narration and action weave together (_read_: this isn't just straight sex) because it best served to do their characters justice.

I tried my hardest to make this story historically accurate in so many ways you'll probably never realize, however I don't think anything here requires prior knowledge though hopefully it will spark your interest to learn more. The story is posted as one (very long) piece as it covers the entire history of _T__he United Kingdoms of Sweden and Norway_ from start to finish; you can always stop at a nice section break if you need, I simply felt it wouldn't serve the work to break it up into chapters. The actions here aren't intended to reflect necessarily the countries' history but rather how the characters as human-countries would have acted.

If you want more SuNor after this, let me know what time period and shtuff and I shall do my best. Again, these are two of my favorite characters and my lust for all SuNor is insatiable, so I have no qualms getting requests.

Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Svorsk<br>**1814-1905

Lukas went quietly, because what point was there in screaming? Christen yelled, because he is Christen and when has ever willingly gone along with another's idea? Berwald was quiet too, and Lukas remembers wondering if the Swede had spoken since Timo had left. Lukas hugged Emil, turned his back on Christen, and walked to Berwald. There had been nothing difficult about it.

It's not so bad for Norway, Swedish rule, though the country incarnate must live with Berwald; they have been controlled by another for so long that Lukas cannot remember being master of his body. Even living in Sweden is not so bad, though there are few things in Lukas's life that have ever warranted being described as either good or bad. Time passes quickly before Lukas's eyes; nothing else matters, save the ticking of the clock and the beating of his heart. Not the place, not the people, not his freedom. Lukas has only time and his heart.

The castle is large, cold stone keeping him in his place. At the end of a long corridor a small, round tower serves as Lukas's chambers. The first level presents a formal sitting room; the second, a private sitting room; and the third, his bedroom. A large bed fills the space, with curtains that he forgets to close against the harsh cold, a roaring fire in a large fireplace that he wishes would just go out, would just let him freeze to death. The window looks out on what could be described as beautiful Swedish countryside, a lake shimmering in the distance under the moonlight, if Lukas used such words.

* * *

><p>At night Berwald sits with him. Never in the public parlor, never in the private parlor, but always in his intimate bedchamber. The first night Berwald had stood by the window, Lukas laying under the covers; their eyes had refused to meet, and he had only seen him when the Swede went to stoke the dying fire. As it roared up again, warm and full of life, Lukas had silently cursed Berwald for his stupid kindness. But when he had turned to leave Lukas took back his curse; there was something in Berwald's eyes that Lukas knew was mirrored in his own, something no words could describe, something lacking.<p>

After that first night Berwald would sit on the chest at the end of the bed, Lukas sitting with sheets pulled high over his body. There are beautiful garments in his wardrobe, Danish and Norwegian and Swedish and maybe even something Finnish. The clothes are for both men and women, because Lukas has always worn both. Christen was the one who bought him his first true dress, once fashion had begun to truly separate masculine and feminine garments. When he'd sit on the chest at the end of the bed, Berwald would look at the open wardrobe, at the dresses Lukas wore only in secret, because he didn't know why Berwald had given them to him. Or sometimes Berwald would stare into that fire that roared like Lukas knew the Swedish nation was capable of. Berwald Oxenstierna was the worst nation to meet on a battlefield, once he'd lost himself to the fight; there was no reasoning with him then. The Berwald he had seen be kind years ago to a small nation could not exist in a world where he had a sword in his hand. Maybe he can't exist in this world anymore regardless.

Now Berwald sits on the edge of his bed. Lukas still sits under the covers, but he no longer pulls them up so high. Does not cross his arms so tightly, and tonight, tonight Berwald watches his hand. Lukas has long fingers, almost dainty, but when he looks at them he can see where blood has stained them. Can see where he used to wear rings Christen gave him, rings he returned the night before they parted. The skin on his hands are chapped, because he refuses to wear the feminine gloves Berwald bought him. They are beautiful gloves, perfect in their size and color and decoration. And that is why Lukas does not wear them; he hates Berwald for such wonderful gloves.

"Your hands," Berwald murmurs so low that Lukas almost misses it, though he does not miss the large man's eyes cast down where his hand still lays. Does not miss Berwald reaching to lace their fingers together. His hand is so large compared to Lukas's, and somehow it excites him to know that Berwald is so large and strong and capable of becoming unhinged in a fight. Lukas has always loved danger; it's what he lives for.

His thumb strokes the back of the larger hand, which is neither soft nor rough. Berwald's hand moves, just a little, and their palms press together. Ah, there's the roughness, the calloused palm that is used to chopping firewood beneath Lukas's window while servants insist they could do it Lord Oxenstierna. Berwald removes his shirt when he uses the axe, swinging it with such precision and passion that Lukas's mind clouds with lust at the sight. Each swing has a force behind it that Lukas has never seen, and he knows the Swede pictures his enemies on each piece of wood as he swings the heavy weapon. Lukas cannot imagine any other country having that sort of attachment to someone they love, not the way Berwald was in love with Timo.

Not that it mattered, in the end.

"If," Berwald starts, and Lukas blinks, the sole outward sign of being startled from his thoughts, which had been quickly progressing from Berwald shirtless to Berwald naked, "you do not like the gloves I brought you, I will buy you another pair."

Their eyes meet. Several years have passed here, and Lukas cannot remember any other time their eyes have met before this single moment. Berwald's eyes are hidden behind glasses, which change as fashion and technology moves forward. Lukas still remembers when he did not need glasses, the most vicious of the Vikings, and it's ridiculous to imagine the spectacled man roughly taking women in mead halls after returning from a successful voyage, drinking and pillaging and doing as he damn well pleases. In fact everything about Berwald's outward appearance seems bizarre in Lukas's eyes, from the new glasses to the neat suit to the pale, clean skin under bright blond hair.

But those eyes, they haunt Lukas's dreams. It had been three centuries, maybe four, since he'd last looked the Swedish nation in the eyes. But their color, that green-blue of the ocean, is just too perfect for a sea-faring nation like Lukas once was to resist. The eyes are bright and dark and light and intense all at the same time. It only makes him hate Berwald more, for being so amazing. So beautiful. He's always been like that.

"I am sorry; I will wear them," comes Lukas's terse response. Berwald nods. They are perhaps the two nations who speak the least, and so in those few words they shared it would have been easy for an onlooker to miss their meaning. When Berwald offered to buy another pair, no matter how light his voice was, he was really questioning why Lukas makes himself so miserable. Had he not given Lukas everything a kept country could want? Food? Clothing? Personal space? He could be thrown in the dungeon, where Christen would throw Berwald while Lukas watched, never raising a hand. Berwald is really saying he hasn't forgotten how he was treated and that really, he does not need to be quite so kind to Lukas.

But you are kind, Lukas's words say. Because you are strong but you are weak at the same time and so you are kind. However he admits that the Swede is right, and Lukas will no longer disregard the kindness Berwald shows him, because he is still a better man than Christen is. Lukas would know; he loves the Dane, but he hates him all the same.

Berwald nods, making to stand. Lukas tugs at his hand, leaning forward, and Berwald sits back down. Their eyes meet once more and Berwald's are surprised as Lukas leans forward. It took Christen less than a week to claim Lukas as his in the most intimate of ways when he lived in Denmark. But if the Swedish nation will not claim him, after so many years here, Lukas will do it for him.

His unoccupied hand comes up to hold the side of Berwald's face as their lips meet. They are soft lips, sweet, and as they move against Lukas's mouth he's not surprised. This must be how Timo liked to be kiss, slow and gentle, because Timo was never a warrior the way Berwald and Christen and Lukas were. The larger man moans into his mouth as a tongue sweeps over those lips; satisfied with a reaction like that, Lukas breaks their first romantic kiss.

To his credit, it takes less than ten seconds for Berwald's heaving chest to calm, for his body to once again become collected. He kisses Lukas's hand that he's still holding, slowly, closing those green-blue eyes, before quitting the private bedchamber.

There's a smug look on Lukas's face. If he was capable of feeling guilty maybe the idea would pain him now, for using his kind captor in such a way. But Lukas likes to have control over others, liked when he'd had Christen wrapped around his little finger. Now it is Berwald's turn to know what that is like, to be Lukas's puppet. To be the one being kept.

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><p>Berwald Oxenstierna got Lukas Bondevik because Ivan Braginski has Timo Väinämöinen. Sweden could not fight two wars at once, and despite the fact that if it had been Berwald's choice, all his soldiers would have moved against the Russians to reclaim Finland, it was not his call. So they didn't.<p>

No one knows what Timo's thoughts on all of this were; by the time they realized what had happened, Timo had been taken by his army to the tsar far from the other Nordic nations.

Sometimes when the servants leave him to chop wood in peace, Berwald breaks down and cries. Lukas hates those tears, tells himself it's because a man like that should not cry; that's why it bothers him.

Lukas knows he's only lying to himself.

* * *

><p>The Swedish nation is gone for several days; the Norwegian takes advantage by exploring the castle. He's given up on the men's clothing; none of it feels right. And the Danish dresses, they're left in the hallway to be taken away. While Berwald is gone Lukas explores, acclimating himself to the castle and his body to the Swedish dresses.<p>

By the time the dinner invitation comes indicating his protector's return, Lukas is ready. He writes back, handing the servant the simple note: "Do not take dinner in the dining room; eat with me in my chamber tonight."

Berwald looks tired when he arrives, and his clothes are today less-than-impeccable. He seems surprised to find Lukas wearing the beautiful clothing he so graciously had had made for him. Lukas smiles at that, meandering slowly until he is standing right before his captor, looking him in the eyes. Lazy arms reach up, pulling Berwald to him, and Lukas waits until the last moment to close his eyes, their lips meeting. He's missed this, the touch of another. He refuses to touch humans, because they are gone tomorrow, do not understand him, what it's like to be a nation, what it's like to be him. Christen was only marginally better than a stupid mortal man, but he was always willing when Lukas wanted physical pleasure, which tended to be more nights than not. The Dane quickly learned that the less he said around his Norwegian lover, the higher his chances of sex.

Which makes this silent nation that much more irresistible, their lips moving as one as Lukas's nose passes over his to turn his head the other way. He lets his fingers rake through that hair so like his own, short and blond. Cool metal lays under his fingers as he presses into him, willing Berwald to take a hint, and finally those large hands come to hold him from behind, to help press their bodies together.

Dinner is lovely. They don't speak, and Berwald eats a little too quickly. Lukas hasn't seen him eat in so long, centuries, and so he cannot decide if the speed is because he has not eaten real food like this in some time or if he simply cannot eat any slower. As if reading his mind, the larger man becomes embarrassed, placing his utensils down.

"I am sorry," he whispers. "Sometimes I forget myself. I normally dine alone now."

Because Timo probably never cared how Berwald ate, and Lukas wants to say he doesn't care either, but the words never form. Instead he responds with, "I forgive you," and they return to their food, Berwald eating more slowly.

Servants come to clear the table in the private parlor while Berwald escorts Lukas upstairs, holding him as they traverse the spiral staircase. It's warm out, and though Berwald has told the servants to never let the fire go out, it is small today in the large hearth. The windows are thrown open, a breeze blowing through while Lukas opens the wardrobe. Berwald's back is to him, arms gripping the sill of the window. Lukas watches him as he steps behind the privacy divider, changing for the night. The Swedish man closes his eyes, leaning forward expectedly, as if in ecstasy. Lukas swallows hard, the sight making him flush.

A low moan escapes Berwald's throat, though his lips are pressed together teasingly. "We do not speak," Lukas states simply as he pulls on his robe. Berwald leans back, opening his eyes, though his hands still hold the window sill.

"We are not much for words, you and I." And he casts a small almost-boyish grin over his shoulder, and it's so beautiful that Lukas cannot stop his mouth from opening just a little, his face showing the awe he feels. Berwald smiles on for several more moments before returning to look out the window, and like that the moment is gone.

By the time Berwald leaves, Lukas's heart does not want him to go. When he leans forward for a kiss he lets the sheets drop down over his body, showing the white chemise beneath. He wraps both arms around the man's neck, pulling him close, kissing him deeply, and tonight Berwald responds without hesitation. He wraps his arms around that lithe waist, holds him to his expansive chest, and his tongue daringly sweeps in to Lukas's mouth, finally claiming it for Sweden after so many years. In Lukas's mind only days have passed; he has spent so much longer than two decades with the other in charge. He will spend so much longer under Swedish control, though he does not know how long.

When the nation stands, when he goes to leave, he pauses at the foot of Lukas's bed, his arms reaching out to hold an endpost on each side. Berwald wants to say something, but he stays silent as he searches for the words that finally he decides on to deliver to Lukas. "I enjoy your company very much."

Lukas lets only the smallest of upturned grins escape him. "And I, yours." Berwald mirrors that reaction, and leaves.

* * *

><p>It's really that he's known Berwald for so long. That's what Lukas finds easy, watching him chop down a tree this time somewhere else on the castle's ground. In their time apart, both nations have changed, but there are still some core principals that will never change, that they will always share. They know each other on a deeper level, have for centuries.<p>

And so when he sends for Berwald he knows exactly what will happen. He knows it as soon as he opens the wardrobe, pushing through until he finds the one Finnish dress, which is tight and beautiful and the colors of another's flag, the one who is gone and may never return. His back is to the door when Berwald enters but he hears the gasp. Turning slowly Lukas sees his eyes widen at the sight, his body frozen, and the Norwegian smiles at it. Smiles, wide, without hesitation, because this is it.

The reaction is exactly what he knew it'd be, Berwald quickly becoming needy at the sight. His eyes cloud as he steps forward, slowly, and Lukas falls into his arms as they sweep him up. Berwald's kiss is searing as he's placed down on the large bed, always too large for just his body. Berwald might have meant well by giving him such a bed, but without the Swedish nation in it with him, Lukas feels himself lost in its sheets and pillows and the sheer size of it all.

His shoes are pulled from his feet and Lukas hears Berwald's fall to the ground as well. The large man pushes the dress up until he's kneeling between two creamy thighs that for so long have been without a body between them. Lukas feels himself becoming lost in the pillows, lost in that gaze, reaching up to just touch Berwald. Words like "good" and "beautiful" are new words in his vocabulary, but they describe the Swede perfectly, the Swede that kisses him roughly and gently at once. The Swede that helps him rid that upper body of its jacket and tie and shirt, until Berwald pulls back, tugging his chemise over his head and allowing it to fall to the ground. His chest is even more magnificent than Lukas remembers from their raiding days, a chest that is hard and covered in lines and muscles and is the most masculine thing the effeminate nation has ever seen. His chest is flawless, and Lukas knows that the scars, the lashings Christen used to deliver, are on Berwald's back. Knows because that is where his lashings are, because Christen is a man of habit, and he could always strike their backs with more force than their chests.

Hands roam over the chest, Berwald's resting on either side of his shoulders. The Swede leans down and the Norwegian pushes up to meet him. Their kiss is searing as the body above him comes down, crushing itself into him, and those strong arms that bulge from their own strength sweep under his lithe back. Berwald squeezes Lukas to him, and Lukas can feel where Berwald's fingers trace over the scars of their past. He lets his own hands slide up the chest, over the collarbones and shoulders, to go down the large backside, and were there really that many lashings? Lukas doesn't remember it having ever been quite so bad, his fingers grazing the slightly raised skin.

Tongues fight for dominance, metal digging annoyingly into Lukas face until his hands come up, breaking the kiss to rid them of the annoying pair of glasses. Berwald hesitates for a moment, blinking as he adjusts to the change, before his eyes focus on Lukas, who quirks an eyebrow to ask if he can still see him. The return to their kiss serves as his answer that yes, he can still see is pretty little Norwegian prisoner, who is pushing up into the stronger man. He can feel the growing need of the man on top of him, and it takes his breath away as they roll gently, Lukas's arms coming back to stroke over the straining muscle of Berwald's chest. There is something about stirring a man like Berwald Oxenstierna, the Kingdom of Sweden, the Lion of the North, that excites Lukas more than anything else ever has.

Berwald holds him tightly once more before his arms loosen, falling to where their hips meet. Now on top Lukas sits up slowly, breaking the kiss by sucking on Berwald's tongue. His eyes take in the body, slowly, and even the simple action of looking at Berwald, at his arms, at his chest, at the light hair that trails down into his pants, causes the manhood beneath him to stir, the Swede bucking and groaning quietly as if against his will. Lukas smirks, running his hands up and down the chest, fingers playing in the light hair.

He wants to say something, wants to say that Berwald is beautiful and sexy and so many other pretty things, but his heart is pounding in his chest, loud in his ears, and his face flushes as Lukas realizes how much of what is going on in his head must already be visible to the man beneath him. So instead he grinds down, shifting to remove the fabric of his skirt from under him, and Berwald's clothed cock presses up against his unseen bare ass. He throws his head back wantonly, and Berwald groans again, louder, hands gripping tightly to Norwegian hips that rock sideways, back and forth, then sideways again.

Delicate fingers make quick work of the lacings on his dress, having practiced so that he could remove himself of the item quickly and with dignity when the moment came. In one go, hands taking the bottom hem of the skirt, Lukas lifts and removes all the layers from his body. Berwald makes noises akin to choking as the dress comes up, revealing smooth thighs and Lukas's own erect manhood, a pale chest and, once the dress is over his head, that face again. The Swedish nation's mouth is hanging open; the mask he hides behind is gone. Eyes, wide, rake up and down the body, hands following, softly tracing over every part of him. He throws his head back, lets Berwald do these things to him, and his open eyes watch the canopy ceiling of the bed as his newfound lover sits up, hot mouth trailing searing kisses over the cool skin.

Lukas is on fire. He almost cannot take the passion between them as Berwald's mouth and fingers play, tease, taunt, worship his body, over flat muscle and perk nipples and a smooth stomach. He grinds down, moaning, groaning, pleading, because if Berwald can expose what he is really feeling beneath it all then now Lukas can too; there is nothing to be ashamed of if they are both honest in this bed. When his head finally comes forward, hands resting on the back of his lover's neck, Berwald's eyes show his surprise at seeing the want in the almost-amethyst eyes that meet him. For several minutes they stare at each other, the intensity all consuming, before Lukas leans in, slowly. But Berwald has other plans, grabbing his head and crushing their mouths together, teeth gnashing and small sounds barely escaping. They roll over again, and without breaking the kiss both sets of hands work to remove Berwald of his pants.

He kisses down Lukas's legs, kissing down one long sock, then the other, and they are finally both completely naked. From where his kisses ended at one ankle Berwald looks up, over calves and thighs and takes in the awaiting erection. Lukas watches, the pillow under his head propping him up just enough, and the sight only makes his cock twitch with longing. Berwald's tongue wets his skin as it is dragged back up the leg, and never once do those sea-green eyes leave that cock, until his mouth is hovering just over it, just over the tip. The tongue darts out once, licking just the very end, and suddenly Berwald's eyes darken as they connect with Lukas's.

Then he consumes him, his eyes closing as he goes down on the Norwegian member. Lukas cannot stop his escaping screams of delight that come from his throat, his back arching and his fingers twisting in Berwald's hair while the head bobs up and down, licking, grazing, teasing. It is the most mind-blowing thing Lukas has ever felt as Berwald's hands nudge his legs apart, further, and his feet move so that his legs are bent just over those magnificent Swedish shoulders. The building tension inside him is becoming too much too quickly; never has Lukas been treated like this. Christen was never so kind, so caring, only ever went down on Lukas's cock when he had the smaller nation tied to their shared bed, when he wanted to torture him in the most intimate of ways, to bring him close to the edge but deny Lukas release, leaving him tied to the bed with no completion, no more touches. It was always meant as a reminder of who was stronger, who was more powerful.

But Berwald never stops, not even as Lukas whimpers, trying to say he is about to come. If anything it spurs the larger man on until Lukas is thrusting into that mouth, his back arching off the bed, his head thrown back, stars before his eyes. He yanks at the hair under his hands and Berwald continues sucking and licking, swallowing every last drop that leaves Lukas until his body collapses back onto the bed, the room spinning behind closed eyes. He feels the warmth of Berwald's hands sliding up his sides, under his shoulder blades, and the larger man lays down gently on his chest. That head nuzzles his neck, kissing and sucking on a sensitive spot and Lukas knows it will leave a mark in the morning, though he isn't sure if that is Berwald's intention.

The Swede doesn't move for a long time, doesn't try anything. Lukas had intended for more, had intended to unite them, but Berwald does not seem to mind that he is still half-hard, his cock unattended to. When the Norwegian kisses him, trying to work his hands between them to stroke his captor, Berwald seizes his hand, stilling him.

"No."

"I want you," Lukas whispers, but it's not as needy as he wanted it to sound, nowhere near as lustful. Because as Berwald sits up, propping himself up on one elbow, those eyes are kind and concerned, brow furrowing before it relaxes, and it stirs up something deep inside Lukas that he would rather stay dormant.

"Not tonight." Then Berwald buries his face back in that neck, whispers, "Thank you," and Lukas is left to wonder for what those words were spoken.

* * *

><p>Several nights later and Berwald returns in his military uniform, leaning against the frame of the door, one hand clutching his side. Lukas watches him from before the fireplace, breathing deeply, before standing and making his way to the larger nation, slowly dragging one foot in front of the other.<p>

"Were you attended to?" he asks quietly, brushing hair out from under the Swedish glasses, his skin only grazing the forehead beneath. Every servant here has their assigned tasks, and too many times now Lukas has had the misfortune of finding the doctor who tends to Berwald's wounds.

Those sea-green eyes close, Berwald breathing out. "Yes," he exhales.

"Are you in pain?" Lukas continues, and his concern grows. He's starting to care for Berwald; it's dangerous. He had meant to try to control him, as he had Christen. But Christen was never predisposed towards random acts of kindness, towards beautiful dresses because Lukas wants them and not because Christen likes them, towards holding Lukas and whispering sweet nothings in his ear that come from the heart, simply because.

Berwald is.

"Yes," the Swede breathes again, his face filling with a sad smile.

One of Lukas's hands reaches out, stroking the side of his lover's face before drawing it down to kiss, the other hand snaking under Berwald's to rest protectively on the injury. He leads him back to the bed, Lukas walking backward, and Berwald follows like a thirsty man being led to water. He sits without complaint as Lukas settles over his hips, kissing his neck. Now that Lukas is more familiar with the layers of clothing Berwald wears it is easier to rid him of his uniform, exposing the chest beneath to a volley of sweet kisses over bare and bandaged skin alike.

As if reading his mind Berwald does nothing, using one hand to prop himself up and he leans back, the other hand resting on the pain in his side. Lukas is careful to not touch it as he advances further down, sliding from the welcoming lap to the hard floor between strong legs. They part in expectation, though Lukas knows Berwald did not come for this. He came because he cares for his Norwegian charge, and that is why Lukas is doing what he's doing, which is to gently tug down the Swedish man's pants, exposing the cock beneath that is growing hard in anticipation.

On his knees Lukas's eyes widen, Berwald laying on his back completely. He's glad the other man cannot see his surprise at just how big and beautiful his member is, which Lukas had not noticed their previous night together. Up close it is so much longer than he had thought even a man of Berwald's size could be, and he wants to grab it and stroke it now without hesitation doesn't.

In the back of his mind Lukas knows this is his chance, to take back the upper hand, so he pulls down the pants a bit more to expose the skin of Berwald's upper thighs. His fingers ghost the flesh, moving around the cock to his lower abs, but never touching the stiff member. That unoccupied hand of Berwald's balls in the sheets as Lukas continues his teasing, his hot breath warm again the man's need. Satisfied that he has him wrapped around his finger, reminding him that Lukas should get what Lukas wants, he allows his fingers to run down the light line of hair until they are running up his shaft, Berwald moaning, his entire body convulsing to push against the teasing hands. They move slowly up and down the length, one thumb running over the head, the other over his balls. Up, down. Up, down. Lukas moves as lazily as he wants, all the time in the world for two nations who have aged little over a millennia spent together and apart, as allies and as enemies.

There's a groan of something the Norwegian doesn't catch because he hadn't been expecting it. His hands hesitate in their ministrations as if the larger man might repeat himself; Lukas realizes his breathing has become deeper, speeding up in excitement. Looking over the lean chest presented before him he can see that Berwald's is becoming labored as well, and he watches as the Swede swallows, licking his lips in anticipation.

Perfect.

Up, down. He teases only a bit more before Lukas allows his tongue to dart out, swirling around the head. He lets his teeth graze gently down the shaft, his lips kissing their way back up. Then he takes in just the tip, his tongue swirling about it within his mouth now. Both of his lover's hands, he notices, are now grasping the bedsheets.

He lets himself take only a little bit of the length into his mouth, teasing and sucking and blowing and warming. Then he comes up to kiss the tip, taking in more of Berwald's cock in his next go. But there's no way he can take in all of the man, so his hands tease at the base, and now all he hears are the moans and grunts over the crackling fireplace. And just when he's taken in as much as he can, two hands twist in Lukas's hair, pulling in need.

None of this he lets change his pace, and Lukas is quite set to continue on all night when he feels Berwald moving beneath him, the hands pushing too strongly into his head. He knows that means he's close, but Berwald never stopped for Lukas and that spurns him on until he feels something warm filling his mouth. Christen used to like it when Lukas swallowed, so he's used to it, doesn't gag despite how much he wants to. And yet he is taken by surprise when he hears Berwald calling his name as he comes, and as that man comes down from his high it leaves the Norwegian confused.

Sitting back on his feet he cannot see Berwald's face, but Lukas still cocks his head to one side, confused and intrigued. He has his power back, his power over Berwald, of that he has no doubt. Night by night it's been coming back, and this one was only the final stone. Yet the large man's arms are splayed out on either side of him, hands closing into fists before opening again, Lukas thinks that there's something about Berwald, something different that he cannot name. Something that has always been different about Berwald, setting him apart from the other Nordic nations. Or maybe it's just in Lukas's head, as he climbs onto the bed to lay beside his sweet tormentor, who holds him tight like no one else ever has.

* * *

><p>"You are so beautiful," the giant man whispers, his eyes cast to the floor, one of Lukas's hands captured between both of his. The day has been cold, the fire in the hearth roaring to compensate. Lukas is tucked into bed, and though several months have passed there has been little more than exchanged blowjobs on lonely, needy nights. It's infuriating how considerate Berwald can be, especially now as he sits on the edge of the overly large bed.<p>

"Thank you," the Norwegian sighs in return, watching the larger man. He has returned to civilian clothing, his dear Swedish nation, though Lukas does not know what had transpired, if anything, on the battlefield, nor does he know against whom the battle had been waged. "Something weighs heavy with you," he observes.

Berwald nods. "Christen Densen would like to visit you."

"Oh?" He is careful not to betray his anger that the stupid nation would, probably wanting to ensure that Lukas is still all his and his alone. Christen has his moments where Lukas does love him, but they are few and far between. Mostly their shared moments were about sex and power, though it has always been difficult to draw the line between where one stopped and the other began.

With that one sound Lukas causes Berwald to look up, finally meeting his gaze. It is sad and longing and hurt, and Lukas exhales slowly because in quiet moments like these he cannot deny that Berwald's heart is not all his. That the majority of it now sits on Russian soil, that Braginski would never let Berwald visit Timo while Berwald willing speaks of Christen's desire to visit Lukas. He does not know which is better, though he is sure of which option the Swede would pick.

The moment passes and the large man looks to the fireplace, blinking slowly. "I will let him visit you," he murmurs, and his body tenses as if he is about to stand. Lukas's hand squeezes Berwald's to tell him not to leave just yet; his lover obeys.

"You do not have to," is all Lukas says, though Berwald's relaxing shoulders indicate that he understands the deeper meaning of the words. That Lukas does not want Christen to visit, does not want to see him. That he wants Berwald to stay with him tonight, more than he has ever wanted Christen to stay.

In what might be the most uncharacterically Berwaldesque moment he's ever passed, the Swede smiles joyfully at the Norwegian nation. It is a small smile, but it is there nonetheless, one hand coming up to stroke the side of Lukas's face. His large palm consumes the cheek, the Norwegian turning to plant a kiss where the palm meets wrist, never looking away.

"You are too good to me," Berwald murmurs before he leans over, stealing Lukas's lips for his own. And this time Lukas is sure to kiss him back just as deeply as he can, his hands tugging in the soft hair, because he wants to leave no mistake as to how far he intends to go tonight. Gasping for air Berwald presses their foreheads together, and when he whispers, "I will try to be gentle," the Norwegian knows he has finally communicated what he wants perfectly.

Hands guide Lukas to kneel on the bed, Berwald tugging at his chemise, Swedish mouth planting kisses on his bare stomach. The Norwegian hands run through his lover's hair, over and over, as those large hands run over his legs and ass, feeling and massaging and making him feel delicate and priceless. Once he's satisfied with Berwald's touching Lukas lays back down on the bed, watching Berwald stands while he gets himself comfortable. The only light in the room now is from the fireplace, the Swede standing between it and the bed. In the glowing light he can see Berwald's body backlit through the thinner layers as each item of clothing is removed, and it drives Lukas crazy. It's becoming hard to see, his head's begun pounding, and there's a ringing in his ears. His lust is consuming him, lust that's been building over decades now, perhaps longer.

It was like this, Lukas vaguely recalls, the first time he was with Christen, the excitement, the passion, the want. Despite the changing opinions of the ages, the countries have always been given some leniency in their sex lives, so long as it was kept quiet and caused no wars. The quiet bit Christen was never so good at (nor the war part for that matter), always sounding off as if he was making up for how little Lukas said or moaned while he was consumed by the Dane. The other men hated Lukas and Lukas alone for it; Christen was their leader, whom they trusted and respected, but Lukas was seen more often than not as something dirty, something unwanted, by the Danish warriors. Even the ones who were more inclined towards seeking out other men would never have wanted to be the receiving partner, and Christen's shouts always left little doubt as to whether Lukas was on top or was their leader's bottom lover.

The older two Nords have had women too he knows. Christen used to prefer them, though his desire for female flesh decreased as his desire for Lukas's body increased. On long campaigns Christen used to send him guilty letters confessing that he had found others, mainly men but sometimes women, to satisfy him in their time apart, as if the Norwegian country cared to know such things. He was never so attached to Christen to become jealous of that, because those who pleased Christen in their one night with him could easily be gone the next day, while Lukas would still be there with his Danish-controlled body. No, Lukas was never jealous of Christen's other lovers.

As his thoughts turn to Berwald he shudders just thinking about the man naked before him, the sexual conquests he has made over centuries. Berwald was as fierce in bed as he was on the battlefield, and even Christen never took from the Swedish man his right to have first pick when they raided towns, when they took prisoners. He used to have an eye for only the most beautiful of humans; Lukas would stand to the side, quiet, betting with himself who Berwald would pick, if anyone. The villages that were spared sex with Berwald were mocked merciless as the nation walked off to retire alone; maybe that was a worst fate, to be undesirable to the consuming Swede. And it used to drive Lukas crazy, because as loud as Christen was, Berwald's partners used to scream like no one else. He's only tasted a little of what Berwald has to offer and yet the quiet nation himself cannot help but scream and howl as the Swedish warrior claims him for his own. He shudders again as Berwald steps forward towards the bed and Lukas's open, awaiting legs.

No one ever looked down on Berwald's receiving partners. If anything the stories they spun, though exaggerate, were only integrated into the collective oral history; Lukas has always held that the majority of folktales involving Freyr, the old god of fertility who pleasured all, were based largely on Berwald. If nations could have had children there would be entire countries populate by solely Berwald's descents.

But no, they had worshipped at the altar of Iðunn. The large Swedish man comes to the edge of the bed, crawling on all fours to settle above his fellow nation. Iðunn had been their goddess, and in those eyes Lukas can still see Berwald making animal sacrifices in temples at their former goddess's altar, the goddess they felt protected them most because they were nations. Immortals. And Iðunn, the goddess of youth, was surely the one who watched over them, granting them eternal youthfulness and cherishing her Viking nations incarnate above all the rest. Lukas still finds himself writing her name sometimes in his journal, still calling out her name in the cold nights where Berwald isn't above him, their chests so close. She is still his goddess, the way Berwald is now his god.

Lukas spreads his legs wider for him to settle between, running Norwegian hands up and down the chest above as his protector assaults his neck, kissing his way to the back where his hairline is, across his Adam's apple, along the line of his jaw. Forearms rest on either of his sides as Lukas first guides that mouth back to his, then rewards Berwald's obedience with a prize: one hand snakes down between them, and Lukas takes both men's cocks in his hands to rub together.

The sound that this produces in his lover is something like a man almost drowned sputtering back to life, the body tensing in surprise. Lukas can only close his eyes and continue stroking up and down because it feels so good, Berwald's breath hot on his ear, the fire crackling behind them, their bodies coming together. A Swedish hand comes down to join the Norwegian one and slowly the two nations work together until it's too much, the feeling of sensitive skin meeting for the first time, and Lukas is throwing his head back, Berwald taking up jerking them off. With a few more fast strokes he comes, screaming for Iðunn to hear some old prayer and Berwald follows suit, shouting the next line of the all-but-forgotten prayer as he comes as well.

They lay still as time passes, until Lukas can feel his partner growing hard again as their bodies press together; one of the gifts their goddess had bestowed on them was an insatiable sex drive. Beneath Berwald Lukas shifts, rubbing and pressing up into him, and the older nation quickly takes the hint as they move against each other, slowly humping with all the time they as nations have as they draw closer to the object of tonight's activities. Hands ghost over flesh, kisses flutter over skin, the moon rises high outside the window. Soon they are once again hard, ready for more, with the sheets of the bed askew and both nations coming undone from their normally neat and blank composure. To an outside observer they would have been unidentifiable as Lord Berwald Oxenstierna, that fearsome Lion of the North, and his consolation prize, the conquered and controlled Lukas Bondevik.

He hates being dirty, hates being covered in cum and sweat, hates being kept by another, but at that moment the smaller man does not care about any of that. All that matters are those piercing sea-green eyes that are burning up for him as Berwald comes back to rest on his legs, his hands spreading Norwegian legs further apart. Those eyes sweep down Lukas's body until Berwald shifts, finding a better position at which to prepare Lukas, his face a mixture of concentration and uncontrollable desire. Lukas lifts his ass with Berwald's help, throwing his head back in anticipation as ah! the first fingers penetrates him, delving deep into his core.

It's been so long, nearly a century for Lukas, perhaps longer for Berwald. A second finger joins the first, moving and scissoring inside. Lukas is vaguely aware that human men often do not do this, not in this day and age; he cannot understand why as a third finger, the last one, is inserted. He has never understood why they feel they cannot be the bottom, why there is such shame to it. Yes it is the more feminine of the two positions, but what does Lukas care? He wears dresses and has been subject to another's rule for centuries, but he also knows that to be the receiving partner does not necessarily mean he is the one being controlled. To the contrary, when Berwald removes his fingers, his body hesitating in what to do next, Lukas knows he is still in control tonight because Berwald will not move until he tells him to. He is at his mercy, willing to go without that pleasure he is so hard for if Lukas does not wish to give it to him. Like Christen teasing Lukas torturously, or Berwald having his pick of their prisoners: Lukas can do as he pleases. He has the power.

The moment hangs in the air for what feels like eternity, green-blue eyes meeting violet-blue ones. Berwald is still resting on his legs between creamy thighs that have not seen the sun in years, and his face changes just a little as if he wants to say something, a subtle change that only Lukas can see. As the large man comes to hover over his body again, his arms holding him high above Lukas's chest, Berwald's mouths moves; no words leave. He purses his lips, seemingly in annoyance with his own thoughts. But Lukas barely notices because in this moment his mind is clear and he knows the words he himself wants to say. Later he'll regret it, having been so caught up in the moment and in the act like some stupid mortal girl. He's never been this consumed by a moment, by sex, as he is now when Berwald decides to say nothing and instead positions himself at Lukas's entrance, his hands holding tight to those hips as he takes a deep breath, readying himself.

One hand reaches out longingly to stroke a Swedish cheek, which startles the nation. Wide green eyes look deep into Lukas as he whispers with the clearest Swedish accent he can manage, "Jag älskar dig," I love you. His lover startles for a moment before pushing in in response, and Lukas throws his head back immediately at the feeling because oh Freyr!, he's so much bigger than Christen, so much bigger than Lukas has ever had. Considerate man he is, Berwald waits until Lukas swallows, nodding, before he moves again, pulling out slowly and pushing back in gently, building up speed with each thrust. But Lukas doesn't look at Berwald, can't, and lets his head fall to the side to stare at pillows, because now he doesn't know why he said what he said, what compelled him to speak the truth. He's guarded that secret for years, the stolen glances in a longhouse when the large man's back was to him, naked in the cold winter. Or when they all lived at Christen's, and Berwald would go bathe in the lake; Lukas could never divert his eyes, though there was always so little of that body to take in from where the Norwegian had had to hide. As strong as his feelings for Christen ever were, with Berwald they seem to have always been magnified tenfold.

Some days it was easier than others to pretend he wasn't in love with him. When they were young, when it was just the three of them, Christen and Berwald had had separate boats to keep peace between them on long voyages. Lukas would move from one boat to the other, and Berwald never said anything about Lukas sleeping beside him; he would simply wrap his arm around his Norwegian companion and kiss his forehead and hold him tight as the boat rocked. In those days he had dreamed of being Berwald's first, a dream that ended when Timo and Emil joined them, because there was no doubt as to whom Berwald prized about the rest when he looked at Timo, and so Lukas threw himself into caring for Emil as a brother to fill that hole in his heart.

During the union of the five countries it was probably hardest, Lukas very much aware of where Berwald would disappear to when he was not in his own room at night. So he had thrown himself on Christen in some silent revenge, hoping that perhaps it would pull at the Swede's heartstrings just a little, the way he had always pulled at Lukas's. The morning they had awaken to discover those two nations had left, Christen had wailed and screamed and punched the wall in the sort of fury that only he has ever been capable of. Lukas had taken Emil out of the large house to remove them from the line of fire, and on the bank of the lake they had laid out in the sun. The Norwegian had promised himself that day he would think no longer of the man he had known for so long, had loved for so long.

Promises like those are difficult to keep when the man in question is thrusting into Lukas, pounding their hips against each other. It's not that he regrets his feelings, but rather that he regrets letting his mask slip so much that he confessed what so obviously Berwald has never felt. So he does not expect Berwald to lean down suddenly, his mouth finding that spot behind Lukas's ear that is so sensitive. Lukas doesn't move, doesn't dare to wrap his arms about the larger man until his arms are being draped around that body by the Swedish nation. That pushes him over the edge, his lips desperately seeking the ones he's wanted for so long. He may not have been Berwald's first, but Lukas has every intention of being the one he remembers above all others, above whoever was his first, above Timo, above the beautify men and women he has defiled over the years. Lukas will have his power over Berwald if it's the last thing he ever does.

"Lukas," the deep voice whispers, husky. Nothing follows the name that falls from that mouth as Berwald buries his head under Lukas's chin, his soft hair tickling the Norwegian's skin. Several more thrusts, hard and painful and desperate, slam into his body before Lukas is screaming, screaming Iðunn's name and Berwald's name and that he loves him so much though he does not mean to repeat those words anymore. A few more thrusts push Berwald as well to the edge, to shouts into the empty castle, and Lukas does not miss that he screams his old name, the name he had had before he was baptized. The name from centuries and centuries ago, when they were little more than pagan raiders leaving on their first journey, the blessing of Iðunn upon their heads.

The heavy body lays on his, chests rising and falling against each other. He cannot see Berwald, the way their bodies landed, though he can sense something building in him, as if now that man is finally processing what his lover said. The feeling leaves as quickly as it comes, Berwald pulling back to stand, lifting Lukas gently and kissing him deeply. He melts immediately at the touch as he's placed back down on the bed, now under the sheets, Berwald climbing in behind him. He feels his back being pulled to that large chest and somehow it doesn't matter that they are filthy. The bed has already become so dirty with their sex acts and disgusting secrets they keep to themselves that to lay in it for a few more hours, sleep taking hold of them, seems to be nothing.

In the dark, Berwald's shoulder obscuring the light from the fireplace that would otherwise have fallen upon his face, Lukas hears the man whisper something. He does not catch the words the first time, so he pushes back against Berwald to signal that he wants him to repeat himself. A sigh shakes his body before the man obliges, though Lukas suspects he doesn't repeat all of what he'd originally said.

"Thank you for that Lukas." One arm drapes across his chest, holding him tight, and with that the Norwegian surrenders once more this evening, allowing himself to be whisked away to the world of dreams.

* * *

><p>Six months later Lukas is waiting in his formal sitting room wearing a new Swedish dress that he had been ordered for this occasion. It had made him smile inwardly at how passive-aggressive Berwald was being about this meeting, about Christen. The Dane in question is led quietly into the room, following Berwald, who goes to stand beside the window, no intention of leaving.<p>

Looking up Lukas finds Christen grinning like the idiot he's always been, his breathing growing rapped. He knows the nation has only ever meant well, that he genuinely does love Lukas. Yes he can be cruel, yes he has whipped him and left him unsatisfied to remind him who is in charge, but Lukas does not hold it against him because if he had been given the power instead, he would have done the same thing. Christen gave him a life more comfortable than many of their own people have ever had, all because he loved that nation who loved another.

Within the blink of any eye Lukas is being held tightly against his former lover, kisses assaulting his neck and face and lips. It's disgusting, makes him sick to be touched this way by another now that he finally has the attention of the one he has always wanted. He can see Berwald over one of Christen's shoulders, the man leaning as if he does not care against the window sill. One head is looking back at the sight, over a large shoulder, and those eyes betray the real hurt Berwald is feeling. It cuts at Lukas, who meets the green gaze defiantly despite Christen's kisses and touches. Once he is sure that Berwald is watching him and only him, once he understands that whatever Lukas is about to do he is doing thinking of Berwald, Lukas takes Christen's face in his hands and kisses him as deeply and passionately as he is capable of, pressing their bodies against each other. The Dane groans and pulls him closer, and Lukas opens his eyes momentarily to see Berwald still watching. His expression is blank but now the Norwegian knows that his message was clear: that kiss was a kiss for Berwald.

When he's satisfied, Christen finally sits, pulling Lukas to his lap, but he pushes himself away to sit in his own chair. "What's wrong with you kæreste?" Christen asks lightly, because he's just thick enough to never notice anything. The use of that pet name, of the name that always implied that Lukas was willing his, makes him shudder. For once the Dane notices, and when he repeats himself he is much more serious, looking the other in the eyes. "What is wrong Lukas?"

He says nothing, his face blank. But Lukas blinks, and there's a subtle shift of his gaze from Christen's open face to just over this forehead, to where Berwald's back is to them.

Christen whips his head, finding the third nation still in the room. "Can you leave us alone Oxenstierna?" Annoyance is clear in his voice.

"No."

In response Christen pulls a face, turning back to look at Lukas before back to Berwald. "Are we really going to play this game?"

"Yes."

His body is still towards the window, Berwald seemingly taking in his grounds that he must have memorized years ago. Lukas has to fight the urge to laugh at Christen's face of disappointment, one Danish hand resting on Lukas's covered knee.

"Why aren't you wearing a Danish dress?" Christen asks in Danish.

"Because," Lukas states in Swedish, "I am no longer under Danish control." There's a growl, low, that Lukas hears in response, signaling that maybe he's pushing the man too far. Not that he'll stop; the danger is quite exciting.

"I want you," Christen whispers, leaning in to Lukas in an effort to not let Berwald hear their exchange. "I want you so bad kæreste. Don't you want me? Want me like we used to fuck?" A nose scrunches up at that word, a word which leaves Lukas with a thousand things he'd rather not remember.

"No." He says it loud enough for even Berwald, who's head pops up to look over at them. The Swede shifts to lean his back against the window now, watching their exchange with quiet amusement.

"Wha- what‽" Christen stands suddenly, the fist on Lukas's knee grabbing the fabric of the skirt as it balls up. "You!" He turns on Berwald, and Lukas has to fight to yank the fabric of the dress from Christen's hand, since the Dane has clearly forgotten that he is holding it. There's the sound of ripping as he escapes that tight grip, and Lukas is so shocked he lets his mask slip, his eyes coming up to meet Berwald from behind Christen's back. It angers the Swede, to see that fear, the ripped dress. "What did you do to my Lukas‽" Christen carries on, not seeming to sense the change in the air. "Did you touch him? Did you touch my Lukas‽"

To his credit Berwald puts his arms behind his back, probably to hide his balling fists, and answers calmly, "Perhaps Lukas was never 'yours'."

That's it, Christen launching himself at Berwald, who grabs the approaching arms, holding them high above their heads. Christen twists to try and relieve some of the pain, his face betraying the terror at seeing the Swede like this. He's worked up, his eyes wide and blazing, as he takes in the smaller man now in his grasp. Just like he used to be: brutal, cruel, savage. Viking.

"I said," he repeats through gritted teeth, a low roar like the predator Berwald is, "that perhaps Lukas was never 'yours'."

Out of desperation Christen throws his head over his shoulder, wild, to look at Lukas. He almost pities the Dane in that moment, who is in love and was heartbroken when his precious Norway was taken from him. Lukas was the rock in Christen's life, and so he let Christen do as he wanted because he was the only anchor to reality. But he knew that Christen had come for sex; he was always so much more physical than Lukas, who preferred the mental, the unspoken, the quiet. If Christen had ever really understood him he would have brought Emil, who Lukas misses more with each passing day, writing long and loving letters that Berwald has personally delivered by one of his trusted men. There's never a response, and Lukas knows that that is Christen's doing.

In that moment he hates the nation he used to love.

"Go away Densen," Lukas whispers into the silence, spitting the name out like something disgusting, his eyes cold as they lock onto Christen's face.

The body tenses and relaxes, as if this is the first time he has ever really seen Lukas, really understood what he was saying. Because Lukas's words mean that he does not want Christen like that, not anymore. That he does not want Christen and does not want to go back to Christen, does not want to be his kæreste any longer. That he does not love Christen, and that maybe he never has.

"Fine." Admitting defeat he yanks his hands from Berwald's grip, and the Swede takes a step back. From where he starts to where he ends, each foot only moving once, there is a completely change of character in the Swedish nation, as if he has now stepped back into the character of a calm and controlled gentleman, stepping out of the vicious and bloodthirsty raider that is always just under the surface. There's one last look of looking from Christen, and Lukas wishes in that moment that maybe he would still care. It's a look of apology, a look of regret, a look that says he had wanted to do better by his sweet kæreste.

There is only silence as Christen leaves.

* * *

><p>Berwald's chest is warm under Lukas's cheek, one hand running up and down lean muscles. His body is a testament to the Swede's willingness to get his hands dirty, to put his back into hard labor, with the fantastic result of a body like his. The flickering light from the fire only enhances the sight, the lines of his abs, of his pecs, of that blond hair that trails further down to where the sheets have fallen. Lukas cannot help but let his eyes close, listening to the beating heart under his ear.<p>

Ba-bum. Ba-bum.

One of the man's hands is running up and down Lukas's curbed back as he leans on Berwald, the larger man's body propped up against the headboard. For years this has been Berwald's bed, the one he gave Lukas decades ago. The change of the century brings with it new questions for the union of their countries that are never asked in this bed. Here there is only Lukas and Berwald, passionate and intense lovers. No nations. No world outside. Only Lukas and Berwald.

They've never spoken of Lukas's feelings, of their first night of sex nearly fifty years previous, the night where he pronounced his love. Lukas wouldn't know what to say, and just thinking back on that night makes his face burn with shame. Berwald, well, nothing has changed in him since hearing those words. They still eat together, still mainly in silence. They go for walks in the evening, read before the fireplace. They make love slowly, and now they've done it hundreds of times but that touch always sets the Norwegian on fire, driving him crazy like nothing else. A small smile plays on his lips as he recalls their acts of passion from this night; his Swedish lover always treats him wonderfully.

"What are you thinking of?" Berwald whispers, probably feeling the smile pressed against his chest.

"You."

"Nice things?"

"Oh yes."

"Good."

And that's what he loves about Berwald, one of the many reasons he'll never say. The simplicity, the quietness, the understated way they communicate.

"Lukas?" A log cracks in two.

"Yes Berwald?"

"Do you love me?"

His heart freezes in his chest. "Why do you ask?"

There is silence for a long time, neither nation speaking. Lukas will not say anything until Berwald gives him more of an idea of what he is trying to get from the smaller nation, and Berwald seems to think on the other's question. The Norwegian looks up, propping his chin upon a hard muscle. He watches that face, shadows from the strong nose and the glasses he's put back on to see Lukas more clearly. Berwald meets his gaze, his two eyes like mini seas, soft and calm.

"Because," the man beneath him whispers, and there's the hint of a mischievous grin. Now Lukas's heart is racing; if he had been mortal he knows this teasing would have killed him already.

"Because why?"

"Because," and the body leans forward, Berwald's eyes open until the last moment where their lips meet. The kiss is slow, their lips moving together until they almost part before reclaiming each other. Lukas rakes one hand through Berwald's soft hair, an arm snaking low around his own waist. "Because," Berwald whispers into the quiet night and against his lips, "I love you."

His eyes must have been so wide at that announcement because Berwald starts to laugh, at Lukas's face and at the strange intensity those three simple words are given and at the world they now live in. He laughs and laughs, his head falling back, his back arching forward. Scrambling to sit up Lukas takes in that face which now looks a millennia younger, like the little boy he'd left the coast with for the first time. The one who'd stolen Lukas's first kiss when they were too small to understand what things like love and sex were. The one that Lukas has loved for so long and it makes his heart sing to see that laugh. He knows no one else has ever seen Berwald laugh like this.

"I love you Berwald," Lukas whispers seriously, and Berwald's hand sweeps across his cheek to bring him down for another kiss. "I've always loved you," he whispers against those lips.

"I know," the Swede says. "I've always known." And in that moment, there is perfection.

* * *

><p>This is it. His bedchamber is packed, devoid of all the personal touches that, over a period ninety-one years, accumulated. The sheets have been stripped from the bed, the fireplace extinguished. This is it.<p>

It's the first time Lukas has worn pants in decades, a new military uniform sent from the capital he has not seen in roughly the same amount of time. Somehow it feels wrong and he does not know if that is because it is so clearly masculine, because it was not a gift from the man who has had possession of him for years, or because it implies that Norway is ready to fight for its freedom from Sweden.

Berwald is dressed in his civilian clothing. He will not fight, though perhaps his army will, Lukas thinks. He does not have it in him anymore, to keep fighting for what he loves; Berwald's love was always the strongest.

They sit side by side on a couch, legs touching.

There is so much to say before the others come to escort him home, before Christen returns for the first time since his disastrous visit, before Lukas sees his brother for the time since he moved to Sweden. No one will be left to comfort Berwald in the empty castle once the trio leaves.

"I-" the larger man starts, then stops, his head dropping down once more over hands that hang, defeated, between his parted legs. Lukas rests one hand on a strong thigh that only last night was between his own, the last night of sex they might ever share. It was so desperate, so unlike the slow pace they've always had. It's been five years since Berwald has said he loved Lukas, words neither have repeated since then. There was never a need to repeat them while they were alone together.

"I understand," Lukas whispers, and Berwald nods.

They've done this before, so many times. Broken up unions, come back together, over and over. It's what nations do, what they are best at. He wishes they weren't so practiced at days like these.

Yet there is still one thing Lukas has to say, because it has gnawed at him since the first time he kissed Berwald. His lover has always been sweet, gentle, slow, kind; those were not words that described Lukas but rather words that described Timo, who was never thirsty for blood, who was the sole focus of Berwald for centuries upon centuries. Lukas has never seen someone love another person so fiercely, someone so willing to risk everything to fight for the one he loves. But Timo disappeared without a word years ago, leaving Berwald to shed tears no one was ever meant to see.

Lukas saw them. He memorized the way that Swedish body would shake, the sounds that would escape that throat. It was never in Lukas's nature to be so kind, to try and understand, but understanding was an integral part of Timo's nature and so Lukas did try. He moved at Berwald's pace, took Berwald's gifts, tried to be honest the way he knows the Finnish nation always was with his large protector.

Perhaps Berwald knew all along what Lukas was doing, picking up those traits that his now-lost lover had had, Lukas seeking to exert control of the one labeled "captor" in their twisted relationship. Who could have imagined life would ever come to this, could have foreseen it centuries earlier when Berwald returned in the dead of night with a small nation in his hands, a nation that he'd found wondering in the snow. Could have known when Berwald had sworn on their new Christian god he would protect the young boy at all costs. That was the day Lukas lost Berwald, lost the war Timo probably never knew they were fighting. In those long nights at Christen's house, Berwald would disappear from his room and Lukas hated that he had most likely gone to seek out Timo. To spite the private man he had allowed Christen to flaunt their relationship, but it never worked; once more Lukas was left behind as Berwald started his new life with his loving Finn.

It has eaten at Lukas for centuries that Berwald was all of Timo's firsts. It eats at him, even now, to think that Timo still has a hold of Berwald. Now that they are about to part, Lukas needs to express that, just once, out loud.

"Berwald?"

"Yes?" He sounds so pitiful; it is, if anything, worst than watching his tears fall.

"I was never a replacement for Väinämöinen, Berwald. Norway was compensation for Finland, but I never intended to replace Timo."

Lukas keeps his eyes down, fixed on his feet, until Berwald shifts uncomfortably and he looks up to see the Swede watching him with wide, confused eyes, his head cocked to one side.

"I do not understand Lukas." The corner of his mouth twitches like it always does when he doesn't understand, because Berwald hates to be the last one to grasp something.

"Wh-" Lukas stops himself; there is no reason to get carried away with emotions as he leaves Berwald. He swallows, calming himself, looking up into those tender eyes with a set face. "You were always so kind Berwald; I did not need that. I realize that that was how you must have kissed Timo, that when you were slow in making love-" he cannot bring himself to say sex "-it was because that was how you must have been with Timo. I never required that of you. I wish you had not treated me as a replacement lover for the one you lost."

Berwald's head is still to one side, his face showing nothing as his head works through everything that Lukas has said. It is probably the most they have ever spoken since the union of Sweden and Norway; how ironic such great amounts of speech would come on the day of its dissolution.

"Is that what you have thought, all these years?" Berwald asks quietly, and it makes Lukas uncomfortable to think that this is news to the Swede.

"Of course Berwald."

He stares at Lukas a minute longer before, as if they were discussing the weather, he states as plain as day, "I have never kissed Timo." Those words hit Lukas like a ton of bricks. For years, for decades, centuries! he has thought of Timo as his enemy, as the one who got Berwald's affection. His mind clouds as the voice carries on.

"Lukas, I have never kissed Timo. He was never my lover. You were always the only one, the only lover I have ever had."

"What?" He blinks rapidly, trying to bring Berwald back into focus, his vision having gone blurry.

That mouth is open as if in surprise, alternating between sadness and amusement. "Why did you think-"

"Because!" It's the first time he's ever let his voice rise like that outside of the bed they consecrated. "Because, Berwald, what else was I to think? For years I loved you, but you only ever cared for him! You used to disappear when we lived at Christen's, the five of us, you would disappear on nights where I had built up the courage to seek you out. You were with him, I know it! That's why he left with you, you two were in love!"

The Swedish mouth decides on smiling bittersweetly. "I was the only one ever in love." Lukas shakes his head, not following. Berwald clears his throat, continuing, and what he says constitutes the longest Lukas is sure he has ever spoken. He speaks softly, slowly, with many pauses as he waits for his mind to catch up with his words. All of it takes Lukas's breath away, the act and the words and the knowledge of just how wrong he has been.

"I am not like you, Lukas. I am not like you and Christen. Yes we used to raid, and yes I had my share of bedmates in those days. But they never meant anything, always an unnamed body. Because I am not like you, I cannot separate the act of sex from the act of love. You and Christen seemed to move on in that world without me, so I tried to take what I could, quickly. But once the raiding stopped, once Timo came to live with us, that all changed.

"Since that day I have only had odd partners, here and there. Normally they are army men, sent to me as some sort of punishment for preferring men to women. But I have not been satisfied since those days long past, and yes, I cared deeply for Timo, but he was small and young and frightened. The night I left, that was the first time I had snuck to his room, whispered for him to come with me. I think he only came because I scared him less than Christen, but there were days when I could see he regretted it. He lived with me for years before I- I-"

Those eyes close, slowly, and he swallows in sadness. Lukas can do nothing but watch Berwald, his heart crying out. How wrong he had been, for so long. How could he have made such a mistake? How could he have been so stupid?

"-before I told him, how I felt. He rejected me, as kindly as he could. I still loved him all the same, had expected as much. But Timo was never mine, Lukas. I have only ever had one lover, one person to return my affections and make me feel whole. I loved Timo desperately, but you I loved fully Lukas Bondevik."

He sits in stunned silence. Somewhere in the distance a door is opening, in the room just over from them. But their door remains closed as Lukas tries to come to terms with all of this new information, Berwald seemingly in shock at how much he has said, let alone revealed.

"Where," Lukas asks quietly, still so confused, "where did you go then? On those nights you were not in your room?"

A large hand reaches out, strokes the side of his cheek. Lukas's eyes close automatically, his face pressing into that hand that has given him so much pleasure, kissing the palm over and over.

"Berwald, tell me where you went," and a single tear escapes, the first tear in centuries. Berwald leans forward, kissing it away, before pressing their foreheads together.

"To sit by the lake," he whispers in Norwegian. "I used to sit and remember days we spent together on the sea. Do you remember, how you would come to me in my boat and we would sleep in peace? Those were the only nights sleep came easy Lukas, because you were there in my arms. They are still the only nights like that, where I can rest easy."

"I have been such an idiot," he moans in response, his voice hoarse. It's like living your whole life to only find out on your deathbed that everything was a lie. Lukas curses Iðunn for what he must now endure, because death would be preferable to the shame of knowing just how many centuries he wasted.

"We all have been idiots," Berwald quips before kissing him deeply. Lukas melts into him, sliding onto his lap and letting his hands pull and push and feel one last time what it is like to be the solitary lover of Berwald Oxenstierna. The kisses are sloppy, the hands desperate, and they part too soon for either's liking.

Standing they straighten themselves out, returning to their faces the masks they wear before the world. No other nations are quite so similar in that regard as Lukas and Berwald, despite how history is ripping them apart.

Lukas sets his eyes on the door which is still closed. Beyond it he can hear Christen, can hear Emil. Two strong arms wrap around him, Berwald's mouth sucking that spot behind his ear one last time.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

Releasing him, Berwald steps forward to open the door, and Lukas does not look back. What point is there in fighting the inevitable? Berwald understands that as Lukas steps forward, crossing the room, and Christen is bouncing on his feet as if he has already forgotten the fight they had had. Emil stands with his arms outstretched, and Lukas willingly enters them, hugging his brother close, kissing his hair.

For several minutes there is nothing but the sound of Emil's gentle sobbing, Christen resting a hand on Lukas's back. Then the door behind them opens, the one that let Emil and Christen in, and all the calm and peace that Lukas has found in his parting moments with Berwald are ripped from him as Timo steps through the door, light blue military uniform, wide eyes searching.

His mask still up, Lukas turns slowly to watch Timo run across the room into Berwald's arm. The Swede's face is shocked, a mixture of confusion and pleasure, and he lifts Timo high in the air, spinning him. They speak quickly in what must be Finnish, though Lukas has never learned the language; he wishes now he knew what they were saying.

"I'm sorry," Christen whispers in his ear, quietly, and there is no teasing. Only understanding, because Christen knows that he loves a man who does not love him and now he has noticed something on his own, something he missed for years. Noticed that Lukas too loves a man who does not love him, not the way he loves Timo with a love that is all consuming, unnatural in its strength and size. The love they had had, Berwald and Lukas, was like a small candle, beautiful to behold but always easily extinguished. What Berwald has for Timo, though, has only ever been a roaring fire, threatening to consume all. "Let's go."

Lukas nods and Emil leaves first, Christen following. In the doorway Lukas chances to look back, just once, something he hates himself for. His eyes meet Berwald's, eyes shining behind glasses as Timo nuzzles that large neck. The eyes change, his whole face does, becoming serious as they take in his so-easily-forgotten lover. Yet Lukas cannot look away as Berwald communicates something, slowly, something that Lukas instinctively understands to mean that what Berwald is about to do is what he wishes he could do to Lukas for the next century as he had during the last one.

Their kiss is deep as Lukas watches, and he can easily imagine the strength behind Berwald's lips; he hopes Timo realizes it too. Maybe not today but eventually, he hopes that Timo will realize how Berwald kisses him the way Lukas liked to be kissed. He hopes that when they first make love, Berwald will take him the way Lukas liked to be fucked. That all of Timo's firsts from now on will have the taint of Lukas in them, and he hopes it consumes the Finn the way thoughts of Berwald loving Timo consume the Norwegian.

It's not that he has anything against Timo, it's just that history fated Timo to be Berwald's when Berwald should have been Lukas's for eternity.

The Norwegian nation makes sure to shut the door tightly behind him as he leaves.


End file.
